Even Veins
by Draqq
Summary: A warrior in green feels his veins beginning to return the blood of his memories, even, rusted, and blue.
1. Prologue: Tethered

Disclaimer: I do not own Zelda. This is fiction based on The Ocarina of Time written for a fanfiction contest, and I will not receive financial profit from it.

**Prologue: "Tethered"**

The rain, upon his smoked bamboo umbrella, reminds only of regret. For ten life-long years, though much had come and left Aokan, he has watched, with a pale heart, over the bridge in hollow mist. Fog drapes his mask and flows through the floorboards, but his eyes are as trees fighting a storm. Speared, stoic, and torn. Rivers wallow down the empty roads and the town returns to the shades of dirt and dust. But between the rooftops, the ashen sky, and stale stone skin and bones, he stands with resolve, with the scars of evergreen. He is the dreamer of the sun beneath the clouds. He is the warrior in winter wishing for spring.

So as if a warm bed of grass, the man strapped in light leather armor, in the color of charcoaled leaves, descends. He lets go of the earth. The umbrella so firmly held flutters beyond the ledge like clovers. The sun sets into the oceanside, with him. Daggers of rain cut across boots lined in metal, belts clasped, gauntlets tightened, and leather sown over war. His eyes close to feel; like a wish hanging the cover of night, each muscle, each bone, each brooding thought, plunge into the path. The wood panels rattle and the air shivers, heeding to the weight. But no one is around, as often is, to know his comfort of rest.

A form-fitting massage patters his body and streams of water spread upon his face. A smile appears, selfless and sound, but the mask only reveals his eyes. To the bridge, curving like a rainbow, the man seemed a demon of nature whose spirit of such quiet ferocity threatened more than the wrath of the storm. Ever since the village became a city, the brdige has known only strain, the footsteps of man. It is afraid to speak in creaks and bends for fear of breaking his peace. The bridge remains vibrantly still.

Like first love.

Never had the bridge felt comfort from a man. Between the raindrops, they listen. The railing. The double railing. The trickling beneath their toes. The aroma of water petals tumbling down their skin. The silence speaks through them like browns glazed bittersweet. A blend so lush and succulent that water runs into the canal. Together, they remember the days of green, of roots and berries and dew. They hear an orchestra of ivy and grass, insects and birds, and verdant pleasantries. A melody of home takes them through arpeggios and triplets, sun and moon phrases, earth chords, allegretto, and a minuet of stars. But suddenly he forgets. A false note. The rain crashes back to the ground.

Pain sears the scar through his chest. The nightmares of the time a darkened sword went through his heart writhe. He tries to reach his legs but his right knee thuds. His left hand clenches his heart as blood seethes through his teeth, drenches his mask, and rushes down his jaw. He breathes in papercuts. The bridge throbs beneath the demon that cannot hear nor see and its body shatters, further deceived. His right arm, stretched, grated, and veined, strikes through the bridge like a switchblade. As the splinters suspend, his eyes awaken. Aware of his fault. His boots grip and, by will alone, he musters toward a nearby wall.

There, he stands, keeping his right hand locked on the wall. The blurs align. His breath loosens. But the cut on his fist still stings. As his eyes stare at the hole in the bridge, the mist settles. Blood and water drip from his hands, staining the rusted dirt. The smoked bamboo umbrella waits at his feet, unfurled in the mud. Trying to grasp the melody, his mind wavers and fades as if waking from a dream. From the corner of his left eye, a passerby crosses, so he raises the umbrella to his waist.

But he stops. His palm slides across the grooves and onto the handle. Mud slides off as he holds the umbrella in strokes against the rain. He walks away, the bridge behind him, but the rain pours onto his face, his shoulders, and his back. The umbrella sways uncomfortably at his side, but his hands are firm and red.

He has forgotten Hyrule for far too long.


	2. Chapter 1: Falling Leaves

He stands before the Great Willow Tree, the tree from which he appeared into this world, and that rests, still rests, just beyond the fork in the road. The rain has stopped and the air welcomes him with the scent of puddles and grass. The umbrella relaxes in his hands and the cuts from the splintered bridge have already dried. With a deep breath through his mask, the sky begins to widen with his lungs. His outstretched arms and legs shuffle his sword upon his waist. Autumn branches nestle in the sunlight. And he remembers why he loves tranquility.

Suddenly, the aroma of fresh nectar cuts his nose.

He remembers in a blur. Blood drips from his nails, staining the bed of orchids nestled by the roots of the tree. Hands wrestle the smooth soil but fail to find a grip. He pulls the black sword from his chest. Eyelids absorb the agony. Between his breath and the deafening screams of the crowd, death courses through his legs, his stomach, and his ribcage. The screams begin to fade. His eyes close beneath the orchids glistening with blood under the sun and beneath the shadows of frightened trees in springtime.

But today, the trees sway with delight to find an old friend. Their branches, shivering in the autumn wind, now jangle in greeting; like hands, they extend with a few falling leaves. The man takes off his mask and smiles in return. He then bows to the willow tree for it has no leaves. Though the tree knew this man, knew this man bowed before its roots many times before, it was surprised.

Not many visit the city gardens anymore, although it was the only park in Aokan. Its dirt paths are now shaped more by the wind than the footsteps of man. With the brewing anger of the town, the trees and flowers kept to themselves in fear. The man noticed the pale bark and wilted stems. Every day for three weeks, the forest trail seemed to dim and sag under gray, but it was not until he saw the trunk of the willow tree that he understood.

A hand twitched, fingers half-covered behind the tree. The hand twitched again. He was certain. Dashing towards the flickers of life, around the dying orchids, as he hastens his mask over his face, he seemed a galloping stallion. His tightly bound armor, sturdy and flexible, sprints its black color over the golden landscape. Near the tree's roots, his leather boots slide on the mud as he examines the body. Without a flinch, it was Asano's…

_Asano, yes, that was her name. And this was her brother. Yes, must be…_

Asano's brother lies on his side with his hand loosely covering the gash in his right side. Nearly half of his pale blue kimono is ripped and red. Carefully, he leans the umbrella on the trunk and then crouches to stretch his right hand over his friend's mouth. He hurries his left hand into his inner chest pocket and draws a bundle of weeds - some with tiny purple flowers, some with thorns - into his own mouth. Taijin still draws breathe.

_Taijin. That is his name._

Turning Taijin's limp body, blood runs onto his palms and off his fingers. He remembers the splintered bridge. He rips the wet kimono with his worn hands and the wound is as he had expected. The gash was overrun by blood and, in his eyes, obviously made by a samurai sword. But closer inspection revealed an unusual cut. Thin and diagonal. Along the fat. Blood leaked slowly. Torture. Not just any technique could cause such a wound, especially on Taijin.

_Was Taijin truly his name?... No matter. He is a swordsman. And a friend. For that I am sure._

He snips the weeds with his left teeth. Dark herbal medicine waits within its stems. He lets the pungent smell arouse him and his friend. Taijin begins to squirm. With a sigh of relief, he whispers an apology into his ear. He presses the weeds firmly on the wound and the black fluid flows onto his flesh. It should have caused an insufferable sting. But Taijin could only grit his teeth and tighten his legs for a second.

Quickly pulling out his water pouch lodged on his waist, his own mouth begs to be saved from thirst. But he pours the remaining ounce of water over the wound. A white translucent cast forms. Just as the wise woman said. Still crouching, he takes the umbrella and cradles it under his neck. He then sifts his arms beneath his friend carefully. And in one swift movement, Taijin is lifted off the ground as red dirt crumbles back to the ground.

He takes one last look at the blood-stained tree, bows, and turns away. In these few moments, he knew this was a battlefield. The trees were right. War is looming over Aokan and he has been caught in its wake. Darting his eyes back and forth, he lets the umbrella drop onto her brother's chest. The cast will only last until the blood washes it away from within.

_Two hours, about. Long enough to get to Asano's teahouse. A teahouse? …Well, somewhere near the forest. Somewhere along the western edge. But the left fork or the right. Or perhaps back where I came. No, it can't… forget it._

_If I was meant to remember… _

_I'll find it._


End file.
